


drink the fatal drop, then fall apart in parts

by manticoremoons



Series: blood and candy revenge tour [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Character Turned Into Vampire, Endgame & Aftermath, Eventual Smut, F/M, Free Choice, Inspired by The Originals (TV), Inspired by The Vampire Diaries, Jonerys Week, Jonerys Week 2019, Masochism, Monsters, Rough Sex, Sadism, Vampires, because why the hell not, dany starts her revenge tour, i feel like i have some issues, in which dany is resurrected as a vampire, my reference for the kind of vampires here is, so i don't really explain the logic but if you know those two you'll be fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: The Lord of Light brings Daenerys back, of course. As a blood-sucking creature of the night.For Jonerys Week: Day 5 - Endgame & Aftermath + Song & Lyrics / Day 7 - Free Choice





	drink the fatal drop, then fall apart in parts

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I was playing with since the finale and then discarded in some folder far away until I decided to look at it again last week. I wanted something bloody, gory and monstrous and to imagine Dany going on a bloodthirsty rampage against everyone who screwed her over. That sort of isn't how this ended up playing out but.... In this story, Jon kills Dany when she's 22 and he's roughly the same age, no?  
> Note, this is based on _The Originals_ and _The Vampire Diaries_ in terms of how vampirism works although it's not named as such in this story. IN those 'verses, vampires are creatures of extravagant emotion, sexuality and cruelty, and everything they were and felt as humans is heightened or in some way perverted. So all of that comes into play here in this wee story, in some way.  
> Title taken from my Lykke Li's Until We Bleed because wasn't that one of the seminal vamp-fic songs back in the day?  
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own (and I'll try to catch any I missed). I owe an update to the multi-chap but will likely only get to it in the coming days.

We drink the fatal drop  
Then love until we bleed  
Then fall apart in parts

## i

When Dany wakes, the first thing that penetrates with pinprick clarity is the _Hunger_.

Her incisors lengthen on instinct. The ravenous beast in her belly gnaws at her insides until she feels hollowed out, empty. She cannot move, limbs numb and so cold to the touch she may as well be ice. To cry for help only makes the shredded flesh at her chest and throat ache unbearably. The wound that killed her still bleeds, the blood thick and black as tar. The smell of it makes her gag. Rotted and dead, _unnatural_ flesh.

The red priests come, a scarlet-robed procession, heads bowed in supplication and reverence. They hum, and the sound echoes in the cavernous room. Braziers light a circle around her, the flames garish orange and an ugly yellow that makes her think of the sun. She hisses and draws herself away from it. An animus instinct deep within her telling her that this brightness, a mere echo of the sun itself, is dangerous to her kind.

Her mouth is dry as the days she spent wandering in the Red Wastes, and she may just die now, hungry and surrounded by these hooded creatures. When one of them approaches, slow and solemn, she snaps her mouth. Draws back into herself, into a fearful crouch, frail muscles tense, teeth bared. She can _see_ them—her teeth. Sharp, extending out of her mouth in a way that cannot be _natural_.

The figure pulls back the hood to reveal a face, beautiful even in her delirium. Eyes dark as the night, lips painted, skin moon-pale. A morsel, perfect in every way.

_Thud-thud._

She hears it then.

_Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud—_

The tremulous rhythm of a human heart. It’s not her own. Hers feels oddly still, heavy as a stone in her breast. But this one, the one inside that woman, it beats. And with it, the silky-liquid sound of blood trapped beneath skin, pulsing, _living_. _Blood_. The priestess tilts her head, an offering, those dark eyes shimmering with excitement.

Her tongue hangs out of her mouth then, thirst and _hunger_ , dismantling remnants of the good manners she spent years learning. The growl makes the whole room shiver, and that’s when she realises it’s coming from her. From inside _her_.

She _wants_.

In the seconds before, her hunger-drunk mind imagines the feeling of ripping into the tender skin at that neck, leaving it gouged out and ugly, glutting herself until there’s nothing left but a husk. A small part of her—the old her—recoils in remembered _horror_. This is not—

This is not what she has ever wanted to be. A creature that only takes and destroys.

When the priestess uses a small knife to pierce her own flesh, a shining pearl of blood rising, sliding down that throat, a rivulet of red. An offering. She snaps her own leash.

And then she drinks, and drinks, one body and the next that thrusts itself at her, and one more after that, until her belly’s full to bursting, her mouth a smudge of crimson and torn flesh, she’s reborn in blood and the fiery grief.

 _Again_.

The first few months, she is little more than a beast. She understands with a pang, why so many had been afraid of her dragons. Drogon's gone for good, lost to the smoking ruins of Valyria, one of the priestesses named Kinvara tells her. Of course, she can't breathe fire as her sons did. Her way is bloodier, more intimate. But she’s a killer all the same. Born from the ashes and blood, from the grief of a lover’s last kiss and the knife in her heart, from the blood of thousands upon thousands that she left smouldering. If she’s still a queen, she’s a _damned_ one.

It's a final bit of godly irony that R’hllor, _Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame_ _and_ _Shadow_ brought her back as a creature of complete darkness, of shadows and the night, whose flesh boiled and bubbled, started to turn ashen and grey in the sun. A gift and a curse, she eventually comes to understand.

She brought thousands, perhaps millions to him by the Flame before she died, but she also committed atrocities. She became a monster in her own right. So, this eternal darkness to which she’s been condemned as a creature that breeds only death is as much her prison as it is anything else.

The red priests are afraid her even as they offer themselves to her, willing sacrifices to a beast they deem part-goddess. Twice a day a fresh body comes to her and bares its neck, and she drinks her fill. Sometimes, she’s _good_ enough to stop before the hypnotic thrum of that heartbeat does. She doesn’t have to finish them all off. But sometimes it feels too good to feel those bodies become frail in her arms, become as cold as she. But they don’t get up.

She doesn’t feel sorry for them. They brought her back, after all. She never asked for _this_. To be _this_. A kept-monster for a gaggle of devoted worshippers.

There comes a time when the routine begins to feel like a burden, bodies offered willingly to satiate her hunger but she's trapped in this temple. She’s barely thirty in human years, she still looks like a girl of twenty-two and an eternity of _this_ yawns before her.

In the dead of night, after they’ve fed her full of a young male acolyte, his eyes had been full of awe and fear (she remembers the fear most, and how good and terrible it felt to inspire it) when he’d tilted his head back and showed his throbbing pulse to her, she escapes the Temple of the Lord of Light. 

By the time she will find herself back in Volantis, hundreds of years hence, the city will have a different name, and the Red Temple of R’hllor will be nothing but rubble and sand, a forgotten memory abandoned to the footnotes of history. And she will have built a few more names for herself _. Night’s Queen_. _The Bloody Terror_. _Daemon_. _Mother of Darkness._

(Here is a thing she tries hard not to remember in the early years after she was brought back and after her escape)

There had been a child.

In the _Before_ , there had been a small bump on her abdomen the size of an apricot, perhaps. She had been so afraid to believe. To even consider the impossibility. Then it was too late, and he killed her. Killed _them_.

(When she learns of it from Kinvara, she hates _him_ more than she ever did when he plunged the knife into her heart and only killed her. Her rage is all-consuming. Her rage means whole _towns_ left bathed in blood. It means villages and hamlets become empty and full of ghosts because of her. It means striking out at whatever’s nearest, claws out, and making it feel even the smallest edge of the pain she does. It means going to find all of them, the Imp, what's left of the Starks, and every single one of those lords who looked down on her even after she sacrificed everything, and _him_ —)

When they brought her back, her body couldn't bear children anymore, dead as she is. She’d been _Mhysa_ in so many ways before. Mother of dragons, mother of Rhaego and thousands of freed slaves, mother of her unnamed and unborn babe. So, she decides if there will be no children of her own flesh, then she can make them out of her own blood.

First, there’s Limon. She makes him only a few months after her escape from Volantis. Finds him wandering on the docks of Lorath begging for the scraps from the fishermen’s night catch to make himself a pitiful dinner of stinking clams before running to hide in his hovel so he could come out and beg again the next night. What remains of her heart is moved by him.

She follows him to his shack, watches him as he lays down on a miserably dirty palette, and knows she has to _save_ him.

The thought of it makes something molten ripple through her, a memory of who she was _Before_. More than just a killer. More than just a beast. But a queen, a mother, a saviour, maybe. There might even be a part of her that still wishes she could atone.

“I want to help,” she murmurs from the shadows. “Do not scream.” 

She’s discovered that she can use the power of persuasion on unwitting humans if she looks at them just so, pupils dilated, and says the words with authority. Limon’s eyes stare up at her, his pupils fat and hypnotised, limbs slack and docile, even though his face is arrested in fear. She grips his skinny wrist and drinks until his heart slows. Then, she bites into her own, and dribbles a drop of crimson blood on his tongue. Then she reaches for his frail neck and breaks it with one hand.

It takes nearly a day for him to awaken from death. By then, she’s found a willing first victim for him, a sailor who'd been blundering about drunk on the docks. She knows that’s what was needed to complete the transformation.

When he’s done, the sailor falling limp and dead to the ground, she smiles. “You’re free now.”

He kneels to her, although she doesn’t ask for it, back hunched in lines of gratitude and devotion.

Her second Childe is a young woman, first seen stumbling out of a brothel, her cheeks all bruised out and blotchy from a recent beating, a noticeable limp where she favours her left leg. Celia with her lovely ringlets of dark hair and sun-kissed skin reminds her of Missand—

_Of someone._

She saves her, too, and offers her the Gift (the Curse). Afterwards, she presents the still-breathing body of the man who’d beaten and raped her in the brothel the night before and watches her drain him with relish.

I will meet injustice with justice. She’d believed it once with all her heart and soul. Now she’s got neither of those left but it’s still true. _This is a kind of_ _justice, surely_?

The next is a young Myrrish slave by the name of Raynor. She sees him following his mistress through the streets of Myr, his neck chained and led about like a dog. Her anger is two-fold at this. Everything she fought and died for, to end slavery in the Bay, to leave the world better than before and there are _still_ humans who treat their fellows this way. _Had it all come to nought?_ And then the more personal disgust to see any person treated as such. She draws him into the back garden of his mistress’ villa and offers him the Gift (the Curse). He didn’t need much guidance to slaughter all who live there while they sleep.

There are others. They become something of a family, a clan. Painting a bloody path through some of the smaller, rural towns and villages that border the Great Grass Sea where she spent some of her youth. They have to be careful though. Draw too much attention, and it can mean their deaths. 

After some time, she thinks about going to find _him_.

Death, she’s found, makes everything more potent and stifling. It sharpens feelings she had when her heart stopped into weapons, little blades whittled with blood and fire.

Here’s the thing: She hates him. She loves him. She _fears_ him. She wants to make him afraid.

It’s a decade and three years, before she makes it up to the so-called _true_ North. She comes to kill him. She might have started with the others who deserve to pay for what they did. But Jon has always been the one foremost in her mind. Even back then, she'd been willing to throw away her hopes and dreams for him, to surrender her heart and all good sense to him. It's only right that she goes to him first.

She leaves the clan in Limon's hands with no promises for when she might return. And then she makes her way across the Narrow Sea hidden in a ship’s galley, the entire crew held in her thrall and providing her with the blood she requires when she needs it. She travels by night as soon as she makes landfall, hiding in caves and whatever abandoned shack she finds along the way. She even spends a night in one of the Wall’s abandoned castles. Nothing but vermin and termites live there now, it seems.

She imagines what she’ll do when she finds him in the dull hours while she waits for the sun to set.

Perhaps she’ll rip an arm out of its socket and watch as he weeps pitifully, bleeds out on the ground beneath her and say, _See, see how it feels?_ Maybe she’ll drain him to an inch of his life, and keep him like that for a few score years, not- _quite_ -dead and undeniably _hers_. Or she’ll slash his throat, and make sure her eyes, glowing red-death in the dark, are the last things he sees before his shocked heart stops. She could punch through his ribs and yank that heart out of his chest, let him die while he watches it still beating and warm in her fist. Another feverish day dream has her turning him, making him just like her. Showing him just how good it can feel to dwell in the dark, to _take_. They could rule the world, _together_. They could reap vengeance on everyone who took and took _and took_ from them.

She hisses at herself in disgust at this last one. Even now she’s still so bloody foolish about Jon Snow.

Far North, beyond the Thenn, she finds his village. It’s a small one, only forty or so people.

 _Jon Snow is dying_ , Tormund Giantsbane tells her, sorrowful about his great friend and amazed that she lives. Apparently, a bear scratch gotten during a hunt in the snowy plains had gone septic, the infection grew inflamed, and he’s been caught in a torpid fever for the last six days, merely waiting to die _. His wolf died trying to save him too, and now he’s done for. Fucker’s been praying for it for the last thirteen years anyway._

She hears it then, the pained moan on the wind, coming from a north-westerly direction. Smells the sickness even from this distance, the decay. 

“Take me to him.”

Tormund seems reluctant, as if he has some inkling of what she is now, questions bubbling on his tongue about why she still looks as she did before. Why he’s become a grizzled mountain man with all his ginger hair almost white and she’s still her. But he does it all the same.

His hovel is grim. The stench of waste sticks to every surface. Human waste, a fucking _waste_ of a life. He’s dying, her Jon Snow, forgotten, in a puddle of his own shit. There’s barely any lucidity to him but when he cracks open an eye to see her, he recognises her. And he starts to groan, a crazed animal sound. “Oh, you’ve come for me—finally. My love,” he says and laughs as though he’s told a joke. “I’ve waited for so long. Take me with you this time, won’t you? _Please_. Don’t leave me here again.”

He thinks she’s a spirit come to kill him. And she wants to, gods, she does. She could stand here and watch him perish, drown on his own vomit and bile. A slow, agonising, ugly death. He deserves it.

“Why shouldn’t I leave you?” she spits.

He blinks at her as though he’s been struck. And then he shakes his head, a tear slips out of the corner of his eye, the droplet’s dirty and slides down his cheek into his rank furs. “You’re right, Dany… I don’t. I don’t deserve this mercy.” And then he starts screaming at the pallid ceiling, clearly whatever moment of lucidness is gone, lost to the fever. “Why won’t you let me die? Why! I’ve tried so hard. I _waited_. I prayed. Why am I still here? When I could be with her! I want to be with _her_. _Please_.”

The rambling rant peters off into a wretched whine. He starts to cough, great hacking coughs that draw splatters of blood and phlegm on his scraggly beard and his pale chest. There’s not much time left for him now. She knows the sounds of dying all too well. 

There’s no language for her feelings then. _No_. His death belongs to _her_ , she was to be the one to do it. Not some pathetic wound. His life is hers, as her life was his to take. _Now and always_ , he’d lied to her once. She'd asked him for a thousand years and she’ll make it so today.

She moves to his side in a blink and throws his shoddy puddle of blankets aside. She drags him close by the shoulders until he’s half kneeling before her, held up like a puppet on strings. His body is unexpectedly frail in her arms, she could break him with her unnatural strength without even trying.

She pulls his head back to reveal his neck, and there. There even in the skin and bones he’s become is that intoxicating scent of him, more potent now that her senses are stronger. It’s familiar, and she wants to taste it, to breathe him in and live in it. To drink him until there’s nothing left.

He opens his barely-conscious eyes to stare at her, there’s reverence and something almost sweet about how he looks at her now. “You came, Dany. You always come.”

If she had a real heart, it would be beating its way out of her chest. She hates that he makes her feel this way. Still, after all this time.

“I did.”

He smiles, a sad twist of his mouth that passes for a smile. “I’m glad. I’ve missed you—every day, I’ve missed you.”

 _Then why did you kill me?_ She wants to scream at him and his stupid broken face. _Why couldn’t you love me? Why couldn’t you choose me?_

When she pierces his neck with her teeth, he keens like a wanton, writhes in his blankets and it’s maybe the first time that the Gift (the Curse) feels like one in this particular moment of violence. His blood fills her mouth, tart with a hint of fragrant sweetness that has her reeling for a heady moment. Has anything ever tasted this lovely?

He brings his hand up to stroke the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as though this is a lover’s embrace. The only thing that stops her is the winded gasp he lets out. She can't take too much. Not this time at least.

When she bites at her wrist, and presses it to his lips, and tells him to “Drink”, he does so with eagerness, weak as he is. And the feel of his tongue on her, the gentle pull as he sucks her essence, makes her thighs clench involuntarily, a tingling in her belly, old instincts awakening.

She hates him with every fibre of her being. But she still _wants_. 

_Gods, she’s every type of fool there is._

She snaps his neck, the sound sharp as a dried twig crackling in the dark, anyway.

## ii

When Jon wakes, the first thing that penetrates with pinprick clarity is the _thirst_.

He has been so frail and weak for what feels like so long that the strength of this thirst almost surprises him. His mouth is dry, and it feels full of sand.

He can smell himself and so much else. Piss, sweat, shit, stale blood, crisp snow, musty animal furs that keep his body warm except he doesn’t feel cold, the piney scent of a crackling fire less than a league away, the spiced fish broth bubbling away in a giant pot on top of it, the bodies of at least eight free folk sitting around it as they wait to break their fast; and nearer, in this very tent, there's this treasured flowery scent he'd thought was lost to him forever. His ears are ringing, senses flooded. Head swivelling, his eyes catch on something, on a pair of red-gold eyes glowing at him in the dark. It’s not Ghost—he’d be able to tell if it was and besides, Ghost’s gone. His heart cracks a little to remember it. It’s—

“You’re awake.”

That voice, petal-soft, has been the companion of his dreams and nightmares for nigh on thirteen years. He would know it anywhere. And when he hears it, his throat catches. Is he dead? But he’s been dead before, he remembers what death is. And this isn’t it. Feeling things, wanting things, knowing things. That’s not what death was. Death was emptiness. It was an end.

“You need to feed, Jon Snow.”

There is a bewitching malevolence in those words that reaches out and coils itself around him, sinuous and snake-like. It draws him to her in spite of all his time-worn instincts to flee. He’s not sure if it's her or him, if she’s real or not. White teeth gleam in the shadows.

He scrambles in his blankets, gripped by terror.

His own teeth feel so large for his mouth, his dried husk of a tongue pressing against his gums.

“W-what did you do?”

“I saved you, Jon.” She laughs then and it’s a cruel sound, but he has a sense that she’s more disgusted with herself. “I’m _always_ saving you.”

It’s funny because he doesn’t feel saved. He moves his chest where the wound had begun to fester—he remembers it festering. He’d felt himself rotting from the inside. “I was dying, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, and now you’re not—well, not really.”

He doesn’t understand. His mind feels so foggy and confused. But there’s this hole inside him, this emptiness that needs filling, but he’s not sure what—

“Little Crow, are you still in there? Dragon Queen?” Tormund’s voice sounds unnaturally loud outside his little tent. What’s even louder though, is his heartbeat, strong and thrumming.

Jon’s head whips in the direction of his friend. _Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud—_

His teeth bite into his lower lip, they’re sharp and pointed. _Fuck, he’s so thirsty_. He could just _drink_.

“Stay out there, Tormund! Don’t come in here!” His voice sounds ropey like he’s just been in a long fight.

He’s not even sure why he tells Tormund to stay back.

( _Yes, you are_ , an inner voice that sounds oddly like someone long-gone from his memories. _You merely don’t want to be_.)

“Why?” Tormund asks, confused. “Are you naked in there, King Crow? We’ve been waiting to hear what’s what for almost two days.” Then his voice turns sly. “Oh, you little bastard—on death’s door and you woke your little cock for the dragon queen, didn’t you?”

“ _Feed_ ,” she whispers.

Jon flinches. “Please, please, Tormund. Don’t come in here, _don’t_ —.”

He must sound too much in pain because Tormund does come in, frantic and concerned. His big hands rest on Jon’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, you all right? You look like shit.”

The smell of his blood, sweet and coppery, is so much stronger now, trapped inside the tent. Jon groans. He sounds like a wounded wolf, like Ghost did before the bear mauled him to death.

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”

“For wha—?”

Tormund doesn’t get to finish his question.

Jon rips his best friend’s throat out, sorrow and hunger making him savage. The blood, when it slides onto his tongue, down his throat, warm and perfect, slakes that primal thirst in ways nothing else could. He drinks and drinks and drinks— _It’s too good_ —until Tormund stops moving and struggling in his arms, until he stills unnaturally so.

Until he’s dead.

“I killed him,” he says when he comes to, he’s not certain how much time has passed, more than a day, to be sure, of his laying in a blood-drunk stupor. His mouth is gummy with remnants of Tormund’s flesh, he’s got blood and entrails daubed all over his chin and cheeks like a greedy child.

“Yes—yes you did, Jon Snow.” She’s watching him the way a maester might watch a dull experiment. “I suppose it’s what you do, isn’t it? Kill people you love.” She says it with a calculated cruelty that makes him wince with every word.

“I didn’t mean to. I-I didn’t want to.” The guilt threatens to swallow him whole. Tormund, his greatest friend. His _only_ friend.

“Yet you did.” _It doesn’t matter what you want. It never has_. She’d said it to him before, a long time ago.

He’s always done things he didn’t want to do.

“We need to go, or his people will get angry—we’ve already waited too long. They’re probably going to come for us with pitchforks now.”

In the end, the tatters of Jon’s honour, are still too strong. Because he carries Tormund—who feels so light in his arms, he wouldn’t have been able to lift the big man before—back to his people with a penitent mien, ever ready to take his punishment. He owes them that much, surely. They’d taken him in, given him refuge, and he’s repaid it with murder.

Their fear is palpable, all of them draw back from him in revulsion. And he remembers that he forgot to wipe his mouth, to clear the evidence of his latest crime. When they start to wave their weapons at him, start to call him “monster”, Dany appears at his side, seemingly out of thin air. That scares them even more.

“You killed him! You killed Tormund!”

Jon bows his head in shame.

“I did warn you.” Her voice is thick and growly, and he can see her face has become a strange mottled grey, her eyes black threaded with crimson and gold.

“She’s a demon!” one of the free folk mutters, and the rest say it louder. They’re brandishing their torches, screaming in horror, and he can see some of the men stepping forward to eliminate this new and most terrifying threat.

When one of them throws a stone at Dany, the force of it crashing into her cheek hard enough to break something, Jon throws Tormund’s body at them and moves to stand in front of her. The very idea of anyone hurting her makes something barbaric rear up in his belly, desperate to claw its way out and make everything bleed. He feels his face change without thought, a base instinct. The skin on his forehead prunes, and anger works its way through his body, heated like wildfire. No, _dragon_ fire. He snarls.

In the end, they kill them all. The men, the women, the few children.

Jon has been a killer for most of his adult life. He'd never liked it. And perhaps this is how he knows that this thing he’s become now is different. Because, it’s here, in this orgy of death, with the blood of all these wildlings who’d taken him in and become a family of sorts drenching his skin, with the savagery of unrestrained violence with him ripping grown men limb from limb and glutting himself on their still-warm blood that he realises he _loves_ it. The killing, the fighting, the ruthlessness. All of it.

He’s finally learned how.

## iii

They’re on a boat again. It’s comically familiar and yet entirely different to that last time. Then, they’d been wonderfully alive, warm, spending nights and some days wrapped up in each other’s bodies, falling recklessly in love the way only stupid young people do. They’d been on their way to save the world, they’d thought. 

Now, they’re both dead.

She’d left the ship in a ghost-port that, a place called Hardhome that Jon once told her about all those years ago. It’s entirely abandoned now. The ship’s crew move about their business with a cheerful absentmindedness. She’d made sure to compel them to do so before she left them there.

“I didn’t want you to follow me,” she grits her teeth as she says it. Jon is standing near the ship stateroom’s window, the light of the moon shimmering on his now-unnaturally pale skin.

“I would follow you anywhere.”

It’s the bond speaking. She’s only borne a handful of Childe, but she knows how powerful it can be, what a _tether_ it can be in these first few days for a fledgling. It’s even worse with Jon for some reason. Possibly because they’d known each other before, loved—

Frankly, she doesn’t fucking want it. Not with him. Not now, after everything. Two days ago, she was dreaming of his death. And now they’re here, on her boat, and it feels too much like it was when they were alive, like a grim parody of their former selves, a mummer’s play. And she can’t go through that again. “I don’t believe you.”

He moves towards her then and there’s something lethally seductive about it. Before, Jon Snow had had an economy about the way he moved, a born soldier’s intensity with a deprecating humility and a carefully leashed brutality. He’d always seemed a bit like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, like he worked very hard to hide some parts of himself lest they offend the world. Death has made him different. 

He kneels before her just as he did a lifetime or two ago, lays his sword at her feet and says, “I am yours.”

It shouldn’t have this effect on her after all these years. And yet.

Barely restraining the urge to spit at him or slap him, or worse, drag him up by the neck and lave into his mouth, she escapes the too-small room and nearly runs to the deck. While it’s night-time she can at least spare herself listening to his pretty words and even prettier lies.

She contemplates throwing him overboard several times. Leaving him to paddle his way to shore, and probably dying anyway as soon as the sun comes up. It’s more than he deserves. She doesn’t do it.

“After all that, you know what's so funny? They wouldn’t even make you king,” she says on their tenth day or so. She laughs with a wry shake of her head.

“I never wanted it, I told you so then, and I meant it.” He’s sprawled on a couch watching her.

All they’ve done during the days of this voyage is watch each other warily and angrily, snapping and sniping at each other at every opportunity, two dragons trapped in a too-small space.

“It never mattered what you wanted is what I told you then, Jon, and you didn’t listen.” She’s still so bitter for it. “We could’ve changed the world and made it better together. I would've done _anything_ to have that, by your side. And you threw it all away. For what? Loyalty? Honour? Your _family_? And they threw you away in the end anyway,” she sneers.

“I was a fool,” he admits. And she can hear it in his voice, the barely controlled fury. He clenches his fist and whips it around to punch a whole in the wall near his head, the wood splintering loudly, and leaving his fist bloody and torn. The wound heals within seconds. “I _know_ , I was made the fool. My own sister swore an oath to me before a heart tree and betrayed me. They goaded me into killing _you_ , my own kin, Arya, Bran, Tyrion, all of them so I could bear the burden and pay the price of the crime, alone at the Wall, while _they_ got to live free of shame.” He takes the chair he was sitting on and throws it at the wall above the map table, it leaves a dent and the legs break off in a shower of dust. Rage turns his eyes black and his incisors extend, and she can tell he wants to kill something. Unleash all that wrath on the world and rip it to shreds. “If I could, I’d kill them. I’d make them pay.”

And it’s the first time in a long time that she feels they’re of a mind. She understands wrath, pain, and treachery too well. 

Jon, more than any person she's ever met, had always had faith in his family. The little bastard boy desperate to be a Stark to the very end. He'd wanted to believe that the notions of honour and duty that Eddard Stark had grafted into his very bones since childhood, that guided his actions as a compass would, were shared by those he trusted. She'd never been so naive, her life had never allowed her that. Not Viserys who taught her how fragile the so-called bonds of family can be, certainly not in those days when they lived as little more than beggars on the streets of Essos. For some reason, even though life had thrown so many cruelties at him, Jon had allowed himself to hope.

They'd all betrayed him in the end anyway, his precious family, just as they did her. And even though she despises him for being such a fool, there's something wretchedly sad about it.

“Do you regret killing me?” she asks one morning after a shared breakfast of a Braavosi sailor. His blood tastes sour and sickly, and she wonders if he’s got a case of scurvy. They might need to dock at the next port to replenish the food stores, so the crew can eat better.

He offers her an agonised grimace. “Every day.” She thinks he only _half_ -means it. There’s still a part of him that believes wholeheartedly in honour even if it’s a significantly smaller and shattered part than it was when he was alive.

"We had a child, you know," she tells him as though she's remarking on the state of the weather. "We would've had a babe, a little girl or perhaps a boy that we might have named for my mother or your father." Ned Stark or Rhaegar, it doesn't matter which now.

He shakes his head, his features crumpling into an anguished scowl of denial. "No, no."

Dany stands from her chair and prowls toward him, relishing the torment etched in his face as she flings the words at him like poisoned darts. "Yes... _yes_. When you killed me, you killed our child. And every single day of the last several years, I've dreamed of killing you. Of _making_ you suffer even a little of the pain I did knowing that _you_ robbed me of that."

She leaves him in the ship's stateroom, her own eyes smarting with grief that feels as fresh as if it were yesterday. But she can hear his weeping no matter how far she goes. 

He asks her days later, his eyes are still shadowed from the truth she told him about their babe. The fact that he's a kinslayer twice-over. “What of you? Do you regret killing me?”

She has to think about it for a few moments because she hasn’t really had time to absorb this fact, that she’s given him what he gave her. _A Death for a death, a treason for a treason_. She watched him kill his closest friend mere days ago and there was a part of her that even enjoyed it. If nothing else, she knows what it is to do something from which you can’t possibly return. She lost some people too. She lost all her people to fight _with him_ , _for him_ , and her babe. She even lost herself. So, killing Jon Snow was the very _least_ she could do. She grins, teeth sharp, and answers, fully meaning it, “Not even a little.”

He seems annoyed by her answer and there’s a possibility that one day, years from now, he might resent her for this, for making him what he is. Now, he's tense and still full of self-recrimination. His mouth, a sullen pout, is all smeared with blood. She can’t help but look as he licks his plump lower lip in a lazy attempt to clean himself up. She feels a dip in her belly just watching it, and again, that bothersome urge to lean in and run her tongue along the seam of his mouth. He’s watching her right back, a heat in his gaze that she knows is reflected in her own.

She steps forward, the sailor still between them, nearly limp but with a good few sips left in him before they must let him wander up to the crew’s quarters for a well-earned nap. Without blinking, she dips her head and latches onto the sailor’s neck and drinks.

The banked fire in Jon’s eyes comes ablaze as he tilts his head to do the same, the quiet slurp as he draws deep and swallows greedily. There’s something intimate about it that it makes Dany’s smallclothes damp, and she rubs her thighs together to stem the want. Jon’s pupils are blown out, the dark whiskey-colour nearly all black as he breathes heavily through his nose. He can probably smell her arousal from where he stands.

It’s a moment of uncanny honesty.Everything of the people they were before and what they are now has led up to this moment. Two made monsters, hungry for blood and each other.

He comes to her eventually, knocks on the door. Dany stands up to let him in and she’s struck again when she sees him standing on her threshold with the feeling that they’ve done this before, that they’re playing out a story they’ll be living over and over and over again for an eternity. 

She steps back to let him in just like she did that night long ago. 

This kiss is nothing like that first-time, gentle and searching, half-afraid and desperately in love. No, this one is full of ferocity, he pushes her against the nearest wall with enough force that the wood cracks against her head. She throws him back just as hard, so he lands on the floor with a spine-rattling thud. She bites at his mouth and draws blood, that familiar honeyed flavour bursts on her tongue. She pulls back to see the rip in his skin already closing and then uses her tongue to clean him up. He's older, a little more rugged in the face with crow's feet around his eyes and a few strands of grey in that lovely curly hair of his, but still so comely he reminds her of the silly love-struck maiden she once was. All those lean corded muscles in his arms and chest, a feast for her eyes. She nibbles her way down to his clavicle, tastes the salt and sweat of him.

There’s no holding back after that.

Whatever clothes she was wearing before are made unsalvageable when he rips her dress from the neck down, corset too, and bares her breasts to the cool ocean air. Craning his neck up to lap and suckle at one hardened nipple while his fingers pinch and play with the other mercilessly.

Dany mewls, loud and wanton, her legs tightening around his hips, so she can rub herself at his ridged length through his trousers. She’s soaked, desperate to be filled. Rising on her haunches, she yanks at Jon’s trousers, tearing the cloth like paper, and his cock rears up, flushed and thick, the tip gleaming with desire. Her mouth waters and she’s tempted to take him in her mouth, learn how he tastes now. But there’ll be time enough for that later. In this moment, she needs him inside, stretching her, fucking into her until she forgets her own name.

She takes his dick by the hand and he bucks into her touch with a wolf-like snarl, fucks into her fist. Positioning him at her entrance, she sinks down on him in one go. Both of them moan at the glove-tight feel. Jon throws his head back against the wood floor, his eyes screwed shut with the pleasure. Dany doesn’t wait for her body to adjust to the fullness, the edge of pain as her cunt works to take his girth feels _so_ good. Riding him, she sets a fast pace, her hands clawed into his torso as she chases release.

Jon, unwilling to be passive, grips her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arse, so he can direct her movements. And when that’s not enough, he uses his strength to fling her off, and shove her towards the bed, crowding behind her while he strips off her remaining clothes and his own, bending her over so he can mount her like a bitch and fuck her from behind. It’s a position she’s only ever allowed herself to delight in with him and he still knows it, damn him. She doesn’t even get a chance to be too irritated because he lunges inside her, and the new angle allows him to hit a spot inside her that makes her wail, loud and uncaring who’ll hear.

“Yes, _ugh_ , yes. Harder, come _on_ ,” she hisses, goading him, her incisors extended and desperate to bite on something. _Anything_. Very little can hurt her these days, but she _wants_ to feel this tomorrow. She wants him to do his level best to break her and she’ll break him right back. She’s fucked plenty of people in the years since she was turned, sex is as much a part of the insatiable hunger as blood is sometimes. Perhaps it’s the shared history, or it’s the way Jon Snow can still make her feel like she has a heart that’s beating—but it hasn’t felt _quite_ like this in a long time. 

There’s no gentleness between them. The slurping sound of his cock inside her sopping slit and the raw slap of skin-on-skin fills the room, every thrust nudges her a few inches forward with the force of it and he just hefts her back, so he can fill her up again. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses, his voice a rasp. “You feel— _fuck_.” He grunts into the nape of her neck, the sound harsh and bestial, licking a line up her spine as if he wants nothing more than to consume every part of her. And she'd let him. Gods be damned, she would.

He yanks at her hair to draw her up so she’s half sitting on him, back against his chest, as he pistons his length inside her. Like this, he’s so deep, she can feel him battering at her womb. He curls one muscled arm around her throat while the other reaches down so his fingers can play with her clit, tweaking and rubbing at it roughly enough that her orgasm takes her by surprise. It’s like being thrown off a cliff without warning, blind-sided and utterly all-consuming. She gasps, and spurts wetly all over his hand and the bedclothes beneath them.

He’s not far behind her, his hips ramming up against her arse before he’s spilling deep inside her with a growl, his knife-sharp teeth grazing her shoulder hard enough to spill blood. The feel of that, of him drinking from _her_ , inflames her, and she’s coming again, her needy sheath clenching around his cock.

“ _Mhm_ , yes. Take it—,” she whines, reaching back with her hand to guide his mouth closer and winces when his teeth sink home, his fingers still swirling over her clit, drawing out the aftershocks of her climax. She’ll return the favour later, latch into his neck, and drink her fill, feel him tremble like an animal caught in a trap while she rides him nice and slow. Right now, it’s all she can do to stay conscious as her eyelids slide close in a languor, her limbs boneless and glistening with sweat as they both collapse on the bed beneath them. 

In the hour of the wolf, the new moon’s light barely filtering in through the ship’s window, he stirs. His mouth is painted red with her blood just as hers is smudged with his. He presses a kiss to her shoulder and it’s so tender it feels almost incongruous for the two of them, for what they've become and what they’ve done to each other in this berth. His hand slips down to grasp her breast, fingers pluck at her nipple until it peaks before trailing over the scar he gave her, and further down her belly which might have housed their child, and then between her legs where he strokes at her nub with his thumb. He's moving to put his mouth there and already she can feel herself growing slick, her body rousing with want. She entwines her fingers with his, pushes them inside her as her hips start to rock. A shuddering sob slips out of her mouth. She's sore and still she's ready to go again. If the way he smoulders up at her means much of anything, he's ready too.

It should be strange how they've fallen into each other as easy as breathing. Two people who've bruised and broken one another as much as they have. But, it feels right in a way nothing else has since she turned.

Then he looks up, his breath steaming up her folds so she shivers in anticipation, and says, “I still want to make them pay. All of them.” There's a vicious glint in his eyes that she recognises all too well as one she's worn herself.

In the morning, their ship sets its course towards White Harbour, although they'll likely make anchor before that. They’ll start with Winterfell and the traitorous queen who sits there and work their way down.

## fin

**Author's Note:**

> There's a half-written epilogue that tells us what they did or maybe comes to the present-future but I got tired of staring at the damn thing, and didn't finish it. Might do so one day. It's funny because I've been struggling with writing post-finale stories and this is the only one I managed to get close to finishing because it was the only one where I could reasonably and coherently write Dany reconciling with Jon. Like, it had to be in the bloodiest, most ruthless, vicious and monstrous way imaginable or bust in my fic-writing head. Isn't that weird?
> 
> If you got to the end of this hot mess, you deserve a prize. Thanks for reading! Feedback is always of the good.


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